


it's done on a diamond, and for fun

by friendly_ficus



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sports, Fluff, Gen, Light Angst, Social Media, Texting, here is something that truly None Of You asked for. this is for Me., some discussion of sports injury, specifically minor league baseball, trying not to have too much of that but i am having fun here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28252143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendly_ficus/pseuds/friendly_ficus
Summary: Tartarus Hellhounds@T_Hellhounds2mOpening day is here! Your #HometownHounds are ready for their best season yet - come down to the park and watch them play yourself! For special group rates, contact our ticketing office.Zagreus comes back from season-ending injury with a vengeance. This is his year, it has to be.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	it's done on a diamond, and for fun

**Author's Note:**

> the lesson with this story is to never make a joke about an AU because you _will_ end up writing it.  
> this is as accurate to real sports as a CW show is accurate to real high school. less accurate than a sports movie. truly just here to miss eating a soft pretzel while people play a sport and have a good time. what research i did for this fic was incredibly niche and honestly won't end up being relevant. i'm about to romanticize the shit out of minor league baseball.  
> play ball!

Zagreus arrives an hour before he needs to.

It’s a cool spring morning, early enough in April that most people still wear jackets before noon. The air is damp but the sky is clear and blue, no rain in the forecast; he grins at the bronze Cerberus statue that sits at the entrance to the ballpark, rubs one shiny nose for luck. 

He taps on one of the great glass doors that will be open to all in a few hours, careful to avoid leaving fingerprints, and gives Styx at the security desk his best pleading eyes. 

Her head jerks up, eyes narrowing in a way that softens when she sees him. Styx has always had a bit of a soft spot for troublemaking baserunners. 

(She’s always had a bit of a soft spot for _him,_ even when he was clambering over the fence in his middle school uniform, cap jammed backwards on his head. Even when he was sixteen and brooding on top of the dugout she’d look the other way, leave a light on for him to find his way out of the park after sunset.)

She rises, wordless, pushes the door open so he can get in and makes sure it locks behind him. He should’ve gone to the side entrance, he knows, but his fingers are cool from the statue out front. Styx knows his traditions better than anyone, by now.

“You’ll do well,” she tells him as he ambles towards the stands. Her voice is low and fond, for all that she keeps her serious expression in place. 

“I hope so,” he smiles, and she shakes her head and returns her attention to a cup of what might charitably be called coffee. 

Styx is right. Styx has been a fixture of the park his whole life, breaking up fights and finding lost kids and making sure no one does anything too stupid. Of course she’s right.

She has to be.

\---

It’s his second season playing for the Tartarus Hellhounds. Well, once the game starts it’ll be his second season. 

It’s nearly two years to the day since Nyx showed up at a game with Mother, watched him steal bases with sharp eyes and argue with his coach with a frown. He’d been furious and directionless, going nowhere fast, burning through the bases of an independent league that he shouldn’t have even _been_ in. Were it not for Father—no.

Zagreus breathes in the smell of cut grass, rising from the field below. In a few hours these seats will be in full sun, he knows, but right now they’re cool and smooth, plastic worn by a thousand different people. He sits. He slumps. He breathes. He stretches out across two seats. 

It’s been nearly two years since Nyx gave him the opportunity, the _chance._ No scouts for the Olympian League would’ve ever seen him where he was, and the Hellhounds are at least part of the system. A way in, even if that way is difficult, even if most players never make it out of the Underworld League into the majors. Even if they’re the Thunderheads’ fourth satellite team and he’s never seen anyone from the organization at a game. He owes her. Owes her a lot, and repaid it last year by missing the most important game of the season laid up on Orpheus’ couch with a concussion. 

Thought that was it, head spinning as his friend played quiet melodies and made sure he drank enough water. That the dreams he’d had as a kid, posters of Heracles and Jason and Achilles on his wall, were over and done.

It wasn’t. They aren’t. 

He spent the offseason training and practicing and running all the drills Skelly wanted, until he figured out how to cover his weak spots, how to stop telegraphing a steal. Working and working and _working,_ refining his play until even Charon cracked a smile and gave him an approving grunt—a rare thing from the stoic coach. Barely watched Theseus and Asterius lead the Thunderheads to the playoffs because he was so wrung out every night, fundamentals burning through his muscles. 

He’ll do well. He’ll do better than _well._ This is his moment.

He doesn’t need to be in the locker room for another forty-five minutes at _least,_ so he stays where he is, draped across the seats. There’s an armrest digging into his back. He can feel himself slipping very slowly; in a minute he’ll need to push himself back up or sit on the cement.

His phone chirps.

\---

**Orpheus🎸🎶:** my friend, i have a favor to ask

**Z:** sure, what do you need?

**Orpheus🎸🎶:** eurydice already left, but she forgot her tea in the fridge :(

**Orpheus🎸🎶:** can you make sure she has something to drink. peach?

**Z:** got it, d keeps the machine stocked. they had peach last season at least.

**Orpheus🎸🎶:** :)

**Z:** :)

**Orpheus🎸🎶:** good luck today

\---

He doesn’t find himself in this part of the park very often; it’s at the opposite end of what feels like everything, winding through staff tunnels and passing various stockpiles of cleaning supplies and whatever else might be in the closets. It’s quiet and cold and underground, though they keep it lit well and there’s an encouraging poster every five feet.

It’s not his place, Park Operations. He knows better than to stick his nose into the logistical feats that must be accomplished to keep the place up and running. But this is where they keep the vending machine that features both peach tea and grape soda and half a dozen other less popular drinks. There’s a rumor that after you’re here long enough, someone makes sure your drink is there, too. Players are rarely around that long.

Zagreus boldly makes his way past the open door of a conference room, as a cheery voice is going over last reminders that wind through his head like snakes, for all the sense they make.

Dusa looks up as he passes, throws him a smile but stays focused on the walkie talkie codes. He recognizes a few others—Leander from concessions and Hyacinth, who took over for Dusa as head of custodial services at the end of last year when her position changed—but he doesn’t stop and interrupt. This is Park Operations; if he trips and knocks over the wrong file, the roof could fall in or something.

No, Zagreus doesn’t stop. He makes it to the mythical machine, confirms that it does have Eurydice’s preferred brand of peach tea, and legs it all the way back up to the announcer’s booth. She’s not in yet—probably on the bus, Orpheus likely texted as soon as he realized—so he leaves it on her desk. And he spends a minute looking out her window.

It’s the best view of the field, high up and looking down. They must look small from up here, but she’s never gotten a name wrong. Never miscalled a play, even when the umps have.

Oh, his friends. He feels warm, when he texts Orpheus to let him know the delivery has been made. Lucky in a way that would’ve been ridiculous two years ago, imagining Eurydice’s smile.

He spent half the offseason in their apartment, it feels like, trying to learn guitar while Eurydice sang and Orpheus corrected his hands. He’s grateful, of all the friendships he’s rekindled coming back to town, to have the two of them. People to buoy him up.

\---

Mother calls while he’s still looking at the field, turning things over and over in his mind. They talk about her flower show, about her hopes for the garden, about the upcoming season.

“Wishing you luck,” she says, warm, “though I’m sure you don’t need it.”

He thinks of the garden at home, of her laughing and cheering at his little league games, tossing wiffle balls for him to practice. The year she spent scorekeeping and the glut of sports pictures she refuses to get rid of.

“I always want it,” he blurts. “I love you.”

“Oh, Zagreus, I love you too. If it weren’t for the show this week, you know I’d—”

“Hey,” he laughs. “Someone’s got to come to the second week games too; I’ll see you then.”

Neither of them mention Father. For all that things are easier now that they live in separate cities, he’s not eager to poke at it. Not eager to throw himself off, at least not on opening day.

“I love you,” Mother says again. “Oh, what’s this? You have something to say?”

There’s a snuffling on the other end of the line, one cheery _bark!_

Zagreus laughs again, truer. Cerberus— _his_ Cerberus, named for the one cast in bronze—audibly wags his tail. He can hear it _thwap_ against a piece of furniture, the old dog still eager and excited.

“Pet him for me,” he pleads. “He’s telling me that no one ever does.”

“Then he is a _liar!”_ Mother sings out, and once they’ve hung up he feels... good. Ready.

\---

He passes Nyx’s office on his way to the locker room. She’s there—he can hear her through the open door, a rare note of agitation in her voice.

She’s always calm, always level. As GM, and as the point of contact between the Hellhounds and the OL. It’s on purpose, he’s pretty sure, because being on the wrong side of one of her stares is the most unnerving thing that can happen, and he can see how that would be valuable.

Still, she’s frustrated now, and it shows on her face when he goes to walk past.

_Wait,_ she mouths, and he comes to a stop in the doorway.

“We will continue this conversation later,” she says into the phone, clipped. “It’s opening day, as I’m sure you’re aware.” 

Then she hangs up.

There’s a moment, after she sets the phone down, where everything feels completely frozen. Zagreus doesn’t breathe, doesn’t ask who she was talking to, or about the rest of the season or about anything else.

She looks at him, that same sharpness her eyes had held when she’d first watched him play. 

“You’re here early,” she says at last, and he nods.

“Is everything—”

“Focus on your play,” she cuts the question off. “This is an important season, and you have a bright future, Zagreus. I’ve heard good things from Skelly about your hitting, and Charon informs me that you’ve greatly improved this past year. That’s why all of this is here, after all.”

“We’re going to win this year,” he promises, earnest, and her severity fades. He thinks she smiles.

“You know it’s about player development, not the record,” she reminds him. “That said: I know everyone will play their hardest. And I know we all like to win.”

He grins, and her smile doesn’t fade even as she waves him away.

\---

Making his way to the locker room, he can feel it buzzing in his brain. Anticipation and competition, fizzing and bright in his blood. He shrugs into the gray and green of his uniform and knows, and _knows_ that he’s gotten better, that they’ve all gotten better, that this is the Hellhounds’ _season._ That this is Tartarus’ _year_ in the UL, that they’re going to _win._

_And then the OL,_ something in him whispers, _and then the World Series._ It starts _here._

Meg’s voice breaks the quiet, coming out of her office. Something about opening day must be in the air, if nobody’s closing their doors, and he wanders in the direction of hers.

“—been doing your stretches,” she’s saying, sounding as satisfied as she ever does. “We’ll need to have a deeper conversation about—”

“Zagreus,” Than breaks in, giving him the barest smile. “You look well.”

He’s sitting on the exam table, surrounded by Meg’s diagrams of muscle groups and the team photos she pretends she doesn’t put up every year and the article she wrote for the _Grecian Journal of Sports Medicine_ that everyone signed at the end of last season.

He doesn’t have a shirt on, beyond a shoulder brace. Zagreus feels his face get a little warm, the smile hitting him hard. Than’s always a little bit of a cool kid, even now, when they haven’t been kids in years and he’s not the only one with a car. 

“You _won’t_ be looking well if you go around eavesdropping,” Meg says, tart. 

He decides not to push his luck, raises both hands in apology as Than tugs a shirt back over his head. “Accidental, I promise.”

“Sure, sure,” she allows, after exchanging a look with Than. “Your head’s fine.”

It’s not a question, but he nods, knowing they’re all remembering last season. One wild pitch and him dodging exactly the wrong way, sprawling back in the dirt with his head ringing. Her tearing out of the depths of the park and snapping orders to his teammates, to _Charon._

He didn’t know what was happening, at the time. Still doesn’t remember much beyond her calling for a stretcher, beyond Than’s voice at his side, _stop trying to get up._ And then a few days on Orpheus’ couch, missing their shot at the postseason.

“Your head’s fine,” she repeats. “Don’t catch any pitches with it this year. We have someone for catching, you know.”

“I know.”

She nods.

Than stands, the motion easy, but his eyes are shadowed. He flexes his shoulder a little, just once, before slinging an arm over Zagreus’ back and pulling them both back toward the uniforms. Than’s never been fond of Meg’s office, for all that he likes _Meg,_ for all that Zagreus knows he encouraged her to pursue sports medicine. Than’s not really fond of anywhere in particular, beyond the pitcher’s mound.

“We’ll have that conversation later,” Meg reminds him, and he throws a nod her direction.

“Everything alright?” Zagreus asks, voice low as their teammates begin to arrive.

“Fine.” Than’s not looking at him. “Leave it.”

He doesn’t really want to leave it, but the way Than sounds— _stop trying to get up_ is too close for him to ignore. He stops. He doesn’t ask.

\---

**Tartarus Hellhounds** @T_Hellhounds 2m

Opening day is here! Your #HometownHounds are ready for their best season yet - come down to the park and watch them play yourself! For special group rates, contact our ticketing office.

**Asphodel Magma** @OfficialAsphodelM 1m

The Magma are bringing the heat 🌋 to Tartarus today! Catch us next week for our home opener, where we take on the Centaurs. Until then, cheer on Lernie and the team at the Tartarus park! 

\---

Charon gives them all an approving nod as they file into the dugout. He’s a man of very few words and a great many meaningful silences. At his side, Skelly gives a few final words of advice and cracks a few awful jokes to put everyone at ease.

Zagreus isn’t nervous at all. He’s still brimming with eagerness, to play, to run, to _win._

There’s a brief crackle as the PA system comes on, a hush falling over the crowd.

_Hello, fellow fans!_ Eurydice’s voice calls out over them, and a few cheers come up. _It’s a beautiful April morning, not a cloud in the sky, and you are here today to see the first game of the season. Your own Hellhounds against the Magma, all the way from Asphodel—let’s show them a Tartarus welcome!_

That great rising wave of sound, cheers from Asphodel fans and good-natured clapping and boos, all blends together.

“I have a good feeling about this season,” Zagreus confesses to Than, bumping elbows with him. “I think this could be _it.”_

And there’s Eurydice, with the words he’s been waiting for for months, with the chance he’s been chasing for years, with the dream that he _knows_ he can reach—

_Play ball!_

**Author's Note:**

> title for this fic is from the poem "Analysis of Baseball" by May Swenson.  
> what do i even say here. this is an AU that _no one_ asked for but i am having so much fun with it. i meant what i said when i said that this is not accurate to real baseball; i have no idea how teams are run but i know it is NOT just with everyone leaving their office doors open all the time. honestly the less you know about the sport the more you might like this story! real baseball fans forgive me i just miss being a kid and driving a couple hours to see my local minor league team so much and _that_ is the real goal of this fic. to capture those baseball emotions. and, sure, there can be a little story along the way.  
> if you have any questions about this AU i will try to answer them!  
> leave a comment and let me know what you think, i really really love them!


End file.
